Ghostly Reflections (Worm - Misc)
by PseudoSim
Summary: A 'Fresh Start Up'... sometimes it can have very different connotations than what you desire... And not all of them good.
1. Chapter 1

- **Ghostly Reflections** -

- **Prologue** -

* * *

 _International Free News_

 _BLOOD IN THE STREETS OF THE BIG APPLE!_

 _September 13th, 2010_

 _by Edom Sunip_

 _At approximately 9:00 PM last night, violence broke out across New York City as reported gang members turned upon one another. In a rash of violence that at last count has caused nearly one hundred casualties, of both bystanders and involved parties. As yet the reason for this surge of wanton violence is unconfirmed, however we at International Free News managed to learn from an inside source that the PRT suspects a Tinker type Parahuman designated DOLLHOUSE._

 _For the past several months, rumors and reports have been circulating around the local net about un-powered gang members in New York receiving advanced cybernetics that act as force multipliers. And in addition to those, rumors were leaked reports of a new Tinker specializing in cybernetics and mechanical body modifications. In these reports the Tinker was at the time tentatively designated as DOCTOR, a name drawn from the testimony of augmented gang members that were arrested._

 _As yet, unfortunately there is little more information available due to a strict information lockdown that has been put into effect. For past articles regarding the suspect see articles 04/09/10-105 and 07/17/10-96. As always, if you have have any credible and confirmable information please contact 928-2…._

Marshal Hall, or, as he was publicly known as, Legend, closed out of the link Keith had sent him from school and sagged back into his desk chair. Honestly, it was at times like this that he just wanted to just let all his responsibilities go and just say to hell with it all. Resign his post, take his family, settle the debts and go on an extended vacation until the end of the world.

"Just what about this city is it that draws the crazies, ever since Behemoth..." He mused aloud. The crows feet around his eyes deepened when he narrowed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "No… it's always been like this, I just didn't want to ever admit it to myself. Well David, what do you think about this whole mess," he asked aloud, turning his eyes back down and toward his long time longtime friend next to the door frame.

Hidden within his deep hood, Eidolon just shrugged and leaned heavily against the wall, "About the city? I couldn't really say. But I stopped by that Tinker's lab on my way here, see if I could pick up anything the on site guys hadn't... I didn't get much that hadn't already been found except for some hidden documents in a wall safe, but I can tell you this. This guy is one real sick bastard, a real grade A psycho. And considering our usual fare..."

"That bad?"

He shook his hooded head warily, "Marshal, I honestly haven't seen that much gore in one place since the last time I was at the Madison Quarantine zone. From the looks of it this sick bastard didn't even try to clean up his surgery over the last few days; probably the only reason hazmat wasn't needed to clear the place was because of the fire he used to try and destroy any evidence. Thank god he didn't know jack about the fire sprinklers though." He let out a short, bitter laugh, "The sick fuck forgot to turn off the damn fire suppression system."

Leaning forward Marshal raised an eyebrow at his longtime team member.

Sighing heavily he swept back his hood and removed his mask to expose his thinning hair and the tired expression that was becoming more and more the norm for him, "Yeah, yeah. Language, I know. The PR part of the PRT and all that. I just-" his voice caught and he coughed for a moment, "I just hate incidents like this. It's like I'm wading through an endless sea of shit."

"And sometimes," he cast his gaze down to the floor and was silent for a moment, "sometimes it's just all I can do to keep my head above the surface." He looked up and his eyes hardened, "I'll tell you this though Marshal, this guy needs to be caught soon. Otherwise? Well, otherwise I'm afraid Mannequin or Bonesaw will have a contender for either of their spots on the Nine. Damn the Doctor if need be."

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110

The threat of Endbringers and city economies _really_ didn't mesh well. Any school kid could tell you this, any street thug could tell you this. All across the country there were places that were simply left to decay and rot away when their companies went under or moved on to greener pastures.

There was however one warehouse in Brockton Bay's former industrial district though that wasn't quite so abandoned. It was within this warehouse's office that a slim girl sat before an illuminated computer monitor. Framed by the light coming out of of the old CRT monitor before her.

The old warehouse was silent for the most part, barring the girl as she tapped and clicked away at the computer's old keyboard and mouse. Then there were of course the rats. She still could remember that first time she woke up in the middle of the night to see them; scampering all about on the floor beside her as they ate through her food supplied and stared at her in the dark. And they had nothing on the insects.

Still, she was willing to put up with the rats and the insects, for the warehouse was secure. It had an intact landline, after a manner pulling it from the wall of course, that she could attach her internet splicer onto, and it was warm.

Well relatively warm. The place was _still_ an abandoned warehouse by the bay during an early onset winter season, so needless to say it wasn't exactly the Hilton.

But despite all that though, it was many times better than sleeping on the street. Her little sanctuary kept her away from the druggies, the homeless, the hookers, the gang's and whoever and whatever else was at home on the streets. But quite possibly more importantly to her, it allowed her to keep her mind occupied. Whether it was forum trawling, reading, or just plain old cleaning.

With a few mouse clicks and a flurry of typing, she logged herself into the Protectorates internal database using the default password of an employee that had been fired several years earlier. From there is was simply a matter of finding the correct file she so desired.

"Ah hah," She announced as she found the object of her search. With a mouse click she opened the file and provided the password she had used to login.

Access code: ***********************

Case report 10-11-10-285B2-F(?)

Protectorate-Guild Case Files, Regarding: Tinker designated DOLLHOUSE, AKA Doctor.

DOLLHOUSE incident summary pages 003-006 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report.

By: Investigator Samsal North, PRT PID (PID: Parahuman Investigation Division), Crime Scene Investigation.

For report details see pages 07-032 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report

By: Investigator Thomas Yung, PRT PID, Crime Scene Investigations.

For report details see pages 033-058 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report

By: Dragon, Guild Consultant, Digital and Technological Evidence Analysis.

For report details see pages 059-087 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report

By: Doctor James Lawson, PRT PID, Psychological Analysis.

For report details see pages 088-104 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report

By: Private Eye, Protectorate PID, Special Investigations summary.

For report details see page 105-133 of DOLLHOUSE investigation report

Skimming through the assorted reports she held back her gag reflex and tried not to bring up her dinner when she got a look at the crime scene photographs. Sure, since she had began living on the streets she had witnessed more than her fair share of depravity. She had seen what humans could do to one another when they so chose to or were pushed far enough.

This though, what this tinker had done _willingly- purposefully_ , it went beyond anything that she had seen the most violent gang thug or enforcer perform. It was sick and had an almost palpable taste of sadism.

Human dissection, dismemberments, necropsies, autopsies... vivisections. Numerous corpses practically stuffed full with cybernetics, organs replaced with mechanical counterparts. One body in particular was pinned by it's skin to a butcher's table via nails, splayed open like a frog in biology. Then there were the heads. Human heads, attached to almost comically simple and cleanly built machines, the tops of their skulls removed, wires and electrodes attached directly to or into the grey matter. Some of which could still be classified as _technically_ alive and cognizant.

But despite the horrid nature of the reports one thing stood out to her, one small notation that was buried buried underneath the photographs and forensic reports on dozens of corpses. But then again, it was always the smallest of details that completed part of the puzzle.

She could do little more than grit her teeth as dominoes began falling and another part of the bigger picture fell into place.

She skipped to the next section of the document, disgust seeping into her blood and immediately balked when she saw his theorized classification ratings. "What the hell!" She exclaimed when she saw that he had possible ratings in half the classification listings.

A Tinker seven rating and a Master one sub-rating were there only things that investigators were tentatively certain about based on evidence gathered. But then there came the theoretical sub-ratings that the man could attain. Mover, Brute, Thinker, Changer, Stranger? Almost all but the more esoteric ratings like a Breaker, Striker or Trump rating were applicable to him depending on whether or not he had cut into himself to do any upgrades.

It was almost ridiculous… almost. Thinking on what she'd surmised from the evidence gathered though, she had to doubt that any of the theoretical ratings where applicable. At least not yet, no… most definitely not yet. As his lab had shown he was a perfectionist. His body was his last sanctuary, his last private place. There was no way he would risk damaging it with imperfect equipment.

He would perfect his techniques before risking something permanent. No. That wasn't quite it.

Taking her thumbnail between her teeth she began to absently gnaw at it while trying to see the picture that wasn't there.

Scrolling back, her eyes darted across the reports, photos, details of the gathered evidence and crime scene analysis. Occasionally pausing to re-read a sentence or two, or study a particular photograph as the more an more pieces of the picture fell into place and became clearer.

It was a simple notation that brought everything together, really just a crumpled post-it with a crude wireframe of a human body that brought it all into focus. And, as she struggled to control her stomach as she realized the conclusion DOLLHOUSE had arrived at. The idea would be revolutionary for medical science, to be sure, but it sick.

The amount of trial and error that would be required… Simply visualizing _herself_ strapped to an operating table, numb from anesthetic, about to be cut open and completely remade into something else.

It was an exponential leap for his specialization and, under the circumstances he knew he would soon have been facing, most certainly worth starting over in a new location. _Despite_ the risks from the PRT and costs involved setting up a new lab.

Rocking back with a creak in the ratty old desk chair, the hacker mentally sifted through the accumulated data she'd gathered from the investigation's report. Reaching conclusions and making connections that the initial investigators had failed to realize, or arrive at. Whether it was simply from ignorance or lack of insight she didn't know, but she had managed to deduce what they hadn't and she didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Dammit," she whispered to herself. Worrying her lip between her teeth for a moment, "He's coming here."

Sighing in weariness, she ran her hands through her hair and dragged her palms down her face before slapping her cheeks several times in quick succession to shock herself awake.

"Well," she said sitting up, "nothing to do about it I suppose but get the hell out of dodge." Then a thought occurred to her. After mulling it over for a moment, her lips stretched into a vulpine grin and she sat forward, opened a TXT document and began rapidly tapping away at the keyboard.

"But I suppose since I'm such a _nice_ \- person, that there wouldn't be any harm in letting the interested parties know where you'll be. Oh no, none at all."

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110

It took a fair while, with the computer's clock ticking by for some time. But, she had done it. She'd managed to go into depth on her reasoning and explain the leaps of logic her power gave her. Hopefully enough so that even those imbeciles that the P.R.T. employed could realize that what she had added was sound. It was exhausting though and had spawned what was likely just the seed of what was to be a lovely migraine, but it was done.

Cracking her neck and rubbing at a knot, she dragged the desktop's cursor across the screen and, with another use of her password, added her analysis to the investigations file. Refreshing the page she checked that her addition had been accepted. It had.

A flicker of motion drew her eyes to the screen and she saw someone was _already_ logged into the file and reading her addition. "Damn, must have pinged the security, should have waited till morning," she muttered to herself just as her splicer gave off a decidedly too happy trill as it detected a back-trace. "And they know where I am. That's wonderful, just wonderful."

Letting out a yawn the hacker checked at the clock on her screen and frowned in irritation as she saw the early hour.

"Great, that's even better… well, at least I'll get to see the sun rise."

Sighing in resignation, she shut off the old office computer and forced herself to rise from the office chair and began packing up her meager belongings in the dark of the decrepit office space. Grabbing the splicer, she unclipped it from the stripped ethernet cable she'd torn from the the wall and wrapped it up to deposit into her backpack.

From there she quickly scanned the small office space, tossing in bits and bobs that she had set out before donning her jacket, slipping on her backpack and scooping up her battered lunchbox.

Stopping in the offices doorway she looked over the small office that had been one of her few places of shelter.

She would miss it, she decided as she took it in one last time. Despite how much of a complete dump it had been and, for the most part, still was. But it had been comfortable, and the closest place to a home she had had in far too long a time. And now, she had to leave it to continue its inevitable decay and degeneration.

Shaking away the depressing thoughts she dug a hand into her pocket for her little helpers, popping a few of the extra strength No-Doz. No use crying over spilled milk now.

Leaving the office, she slowly made her way to the other side of the warehouse. Weaving her way through the piles of trash and debris she'd made in her attempts to clean the place up until she was facing a big plywood board with a two by four frame holding it upright.

Taking hold of a pair of handles, and with a practiced heave, she slid the board to the side to expose a hole in the brick wall and the back of an old dumpster that covered the hole from view in the alley. Kneeling down she gave a smooth push and the dumpster rolled away, giving her enough room to slip though. Pack and all.

Standing up, she cracked her back and pushed the dumpster back against the wall for appearance's sake and set off into the chilly early morning. Her jacket shielded her from the worst of the cold and the small revolver she held in its pocket would protect her from rest.

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110


	2. Chapter 2

Desperately, and with as much strength as I could muster I reached for the banister that stood only inches away from my fingertips. It was all in vain though; no matter what I did, no matter how hard I stretched, my fingers would always be mere inches away. Always there, just outside my reach.

Suddenly, a pair of dainty hands clamped down around my ankle, pulling it out from beneath me and I fell on my face; smashing my nose into the hardwood stairs. Dazed and disoriented from the stinging pain in my nose, I could barely struggle as I felt the hands grab me by my arms and lift me to my feet.

"Now, now Taylor. Using violence to solve your problems? What ever would your mother think?" The rough hands holding me up spun me around and I was looking Emma eye to eye, her face scant inches from mine.

We were close enough that I could practically smell the blood dripping out of her nose from when I had punched her only moments before.

A cruel grin stretched across Emma's face, exposing all of her teeth and distorting it into an evil caricature. "But then again we'll never know," She leaned in close, her eyes widening and her pupils contracting into pin-pricks, "since, ya' know, you killed her n' all."

I shook my head in furious denial, trying to shut out my friend's poisonous words as my freshly butchered hair swished about.

Emma grabbed the sides of my head to still me and forced open my eyes, "It's okay though. I know just the place for someone like you, somewhere you'll never bother people again."

And with that she pushed, sending me hurtling down the Barnes' stairs and tumbling head over bottom. I was just able to make out the indistinct form of the Dark Corruptor as she stared down at me from over Emma's shoulder. Then, it was all gone in a blur and I was falling, falling through a maw of spikes that had opened up at the base of the stairs, falling to a sharp pit of death that reached up, stretching out to-

" **BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP**."

Time froze, my nose mere inches from the bed of death that Emma had installed at the base of her stairs.

" **BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP**."

I tried to place the strange sound, it was so familiar, almost like-'

" **BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP**."

Wearily, I cracked open my crusted over eyes and stared disdainfully at my alarm clock. Its searingly bright, neon green numbers illuminating my nightstand and burning into my eyes.

" **BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEE** -"

Snapping my hand out lightning quick, I slammed my palm down on on the annoying device; mercifully silencing its incessant beeping. Letting my head sink back into my pillow I began to relax from my sudden awakening; trying to remember just why I'd gotten rid of my old alarm clock when I felt a slight tingling run up my arm from my hand. Which, before I could remove my hand, was immediately followed up by the sharp pain of sticking a knife into a wall socket. I was instantly alert again; flopping out of my bed and onto the floor.

Grumbling, I pushed myself up, glaring hatefully at the little device as I grabbed and slipped on my glasses.

"Stupid tinkers, stupid college students who can't wake up," I gripped while I rubbing some feeling back into my hand and lower arm. "Stupid ToyBox, and their stupid capitalism."

Sighing as feeling returned to my arm, I frowned when I saw my breath billow out in front of me in a thin, wispy, cloud of mist. My frown quickly turned into a grimace as I felt the sudden outbreak of goosebumps on my skin and a sharp chill that made me rub my arms furiously for a moment.

Cocking my head I listened, but I heard nothing except for Dad's snoring from down the hall and the creaking of the house. What was noticeably absent however was the hum from the heater in the basement that had been ever present over the past few days.

Rubbing my arms again I could only sigh in exasperation. "Guess the heats out, again," I muttered bitterly and began my morning stretches, my muscles popping a little at the strain of the simple exercises.

That wasn't to say my morning stretches weren't difficult of course. No pain-No Gain and all that, but, at least I was better off than I'd been during my first week. The seven days of hell it had been, where I'd barely been able to grasp my hands behind my back, touch my toes, or even grab my ankles without stinging, burning, pain that left me aching hours later.

Easing out of the last of my stretches I stripped out of my pajamas and quickly donned a set of particularly ugly grey sweats that clashed spectacularly with the pair of green running shoes I had splurged on. Then, to finish my ensemble, I pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail, tying it off with a rubber band before giving myself a final once over in the mirror. Quickly brushing a few stray hairs back, I grab a bottle of water from a value bulk-pack under my desk and slipped into the hall, silently closing my door behind me and creeping down the stairs; the creaking of the house and Dad's rumbling snores giving my feet a steady tempo.

Pushing open the front door I recoiled as the sudden chill of the outside air hit me like a physical force before slipping out onto the porch and facing the snow dusted street. Hopefully, the last vestiges of Brockton Bay's unseasonably early onset of winter would fade soon. Early November was the time for cold wind and sunny skies, _not_ snow, sleet and rain. But, if the lessening amount of snow was any indication, I would soon be able to go for a run without nearly freezing to death .

For now though, I would just have to deal.

Shivering, I rubbed my arms and legs together; the scratchy friction of my sweats providing a rather soothing warmth that, in normal weather, I would have found annoying. But not today though. Today it was butt-ass cold and stretching my arms above my head I breathed the cold air deep into my lungs until I felt I was going to burst. Then, gradually, I let it out in a slow exhale that blocked out my vision for a moment. And when it cleared I was off, hopping over my front steps and settling into a steady pace on the lightly snow covered sidewalk.

Hell, if I was lucky, I would be able to finish my run without getting too wet.

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110

I wasn't lucky, and by the time I'd reached the boardwalk I just _knew_ I had jinxed myself. Really, it was the only _possible_ explanation I could come up with that would be responsable for me stepping in four puddles of muddy snow-slush, getting hit with a half empty Starbucks cup that I was pretty sure had been filled with cigarette butts and getting partially splashed by a car going by. It was either _that_ , or the the universe really didn't want me to finish my run.

'Well,' I thought to myself as I stepped victoriously onto the boardwalk, 'the universe can go fuck itself.' Stopping, I looked up and down the boardwalk, glancing at the benches lined up against the railing until I spotted a one that was relatively free of snow. I headed over to it.

To be completely honest though, I was in a shit mood: I was cold, I was wet, and I the smell of stale coffee mixed with cigarette butts was starting to get to me. _But_ , I had gotten through half my run for the day despite that. So yay me.

Collapsing onto the bench in a dead slump I stretched out my legs and let the frustration bleed out of me. Just for this one moment, I was content. Just sitting here and letting everything fade away as I looked out onto the bay, watching as thin sheets of ice crashed up onto the beach; shattering into little glittering bits that sparkled in despite the overcast skies. Hell, not even that tasty Beefcake-Rent-a-cop making a steady Beeline towards me could put a crimp in my mood.

Not even when he was looming over me, looking down on me, his eyes tracing over my disheveled form could I be brought off my mellow mood, it just meant I had something else to admire; even if it was hidden behind a tracksuit. Sure, I knew I probably looked like one of the Bay's innumerable homeless, or a Merchant god forbid, what with my ugly sweats, smell and rather wet dog appearance.

He probably even threw people off the boardwalk that looked just like I did every day. But damnit, I was having a good moment and I would not be profiled.

And, when he _requested_ that I vacate the premise, I just stretched and focused on the delicious tingling from my legs to tone down my response to a somewhat more polite level. The fact that his accent sounded british helped a little bit too.

Glaring up and over my glasses at the Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop, I told him to go away; well, as kindly as a teenager with a authority issues could of course.

"Would you kindly fuck off for a bit Stormtrooper? I'm trying to catch my breath here."

Almost immediately, as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had _probably_ made a mistake. And I _definitely_ knew I had messed up when the Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop's eyes narrowed to angry slits and he reached for me. Fortunately though I was quick on the draw, pulling the little pepper spray that Dad had forced me to carry during my morning runs.

The pepper spray, which did absolutely nothing to stop the angry Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop from effortlessly tilting his head away from the stream before pulling me off the bench and throwing me onto my stomach. I felt my hands being cuffed and given a pat down before being lifted off the boardwalks boards and being set down like a sack of potatoes on the bench I had occupied only moments before

Blinking dumbly, I could only wonder what the hell I had been thinking. Mouthing off to the guy that probably weighed something three times as much as I did, and could probably bench press me with ease to boot if how I had been handled was any indication, was stupid.

That train of thought was only compounded upon as the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop wiped his face off with a handy-wipe and put some drops in his eyes before shaking my confiscated can of pepper spray in front of me and using up the rest of it like it was a breath freshener until it sputtered empty.

I just stared in disbelief and it must have been showing it on my face since the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop just smacked his lips like he had had a treat and chuckled. _Chuckled_ , for Christ's sake in this deep rumble that I could have _sworn_ I felt in my bones.

"Fraid' you'll be needing something a bit stronger than that in the future Miss." He said, squatting down so we were on the same level; a bemused glint in his eye as he dropped the now empty pepper spray into my lap.

"Now, I apologize if I was a bit rough with you and I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but if I you pardon my inquiring, how did you get in your current condition? Have you been attacked?" He asked kindly. "Would you like me to contact the police?"

I blinked stupidly for a moment, surprised at the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop's almost 180 in attitude. Like a real british gentlemen. It left me gaping like a fish for a moment before I realized I was likely looking like an idiot.

"Uh- um, n-no thank you. I was just out on my run and it was all wet and this jerk threw his coffee and- and-" I stuttered off, stopping myself before I could start rambling, my face flushing abnormally hot all of a sudden.

The Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, examining me intently for a long moment before sighing and shaking his head. He rose to his feet with a small smile. "If you would wait here a moment Miss, I'll get you something that'll make your trip back a bit easier."

I fidgeted on the bench for a moment before nodding and he left, taking long strides down the boardwalk. I watched him go, admiring the way his- I cut that train of thought as I felt my face heat a bit more and instead focused on making myself just a bit more comfortable, shifting my still handcuffed hands to the best position I could. I thought about bolting of course, who wouldn't have, but I decided against it.

Instead I just looked back out at Lord's Bay. Just enjoying the view and the sound of waves.

I was so engrossed in the rhythmic sound the I never noticed the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop sitting down beside me; a long folding knife in one hand and a sheet of thick black plastic in the other. Curious, I watched as he swiftly cut a trio of holes in the plastic before setting the knife aside. Than he stood and picked me up, setting me on my feet and spinning me around before I could make a noise.

I tried to turn around and ask what was going on but a thick hand encircled my wrists, _both of them_ , and moments later the handcuffs were off my wrists. Turning back around I absently rubbed at my wrists as the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop picked the bag up off the bench and held it out for me to take. Glancing from it to him I raised an eyebrow incredulously but accepted it anyway.

Shifting around the sheet of plastic in my hands I quickly discovered that it was actually a trashbag, likely of the same type used in the trash cans scattered across the boardwalk. Looking up at the Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop inquisitively, I just asked what was on my mind as I stuck a hand through one of the holes that had been cut and out another.

"Ok I give, what's it for?"

The Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop frowned, grimacing as if someone had just asked something particularly stupid. Which, of course, was exactly how I was currently feeling as I fiddled with the cut up trash bag.

The Super-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop just shook his head in exasperation. "It's a slicker Miss. With any luck it'll help you get home without getting any wetter," he smirked, " providing you don't step in any more puddles of course."

I looked back down at the cut up trash bag and realized that the holes did indeed line up with where I would slip my arms and head through. "Huh." I slipped on the improvised garment and plucked at the thick material, noticing that I no longer felt nearly as much of the wind chill that I had from my wet sweatshirt. "Thanks a lot."

The Super-Kind-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop just huffed in good humor, "It was no problem Miss. And here," he held out the knife to me. "Something a bit more threatening than that pepper spray if you will," he shrugged self deprecatingly, "and a bit of an apology for being a bit rough with you earlier. I acted a bit too bruskly."

Feeling my face start to heat up again I just accepted the knife and slipped it into my sweatshirts front pocket, deciding not to bother bringing up my pepper spraying him for all the good it had seemed to have done. "Um- thanks… I guess. But isn't there some sort of law against giving someone a weapon… or something?"

Raising an eyebrow the Super-Kind-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop just proffered his hand, palm out. "Well if you don't want it…," He began, trailing off.

"No no," I told him quickly, "I'll keep it, um I have to get back to my run now, if there was anything else?"

The Super-Kind-Beefcake-Rent-a-Cop just shook his head, "No, you better get going then Miss, just be sure to get warm when you get home. Wouldn't want to be getting a cold."

Just nodding in agreement I turned away, jogged off the boardwalk and settling into an easy pace as I began my route home, my wet shoes squishing embarrassingly loud in my ears as I headed home. All was well until I'd gotten a quarter of the way home, no more splashes, fortunately, however an early morning breeze coming up off the bay picked up and the chilled air sent me into shivers.

Almost immediately I could feel my skin break out in goosebumps, and while the improvised slicker helped to shield my upper body from the biting cold, somewhat, my lower half wasn't so lucky. So after running with the wind at my back for a few minutes I ended up cutting through an abandoned industrial park in the hope that the tall buildings would shield me from the wind. It was only when my shivers had lessened though that I noticed the small clusters of homeless grouped around barrels flickering with fire.

Seeing a few of them turn to look my way as I passed I slipped my hand into my front pocket and grasped the handle of the folding knife. However I put the occasional looks to the back of my mind as I kept jogging toward home. Putting one foot in front of the other while keeping my hand around the folding knife, watching out for puddles of slush and keeping an ear out for my surroundings. What little of it that there was for me to hear over the quashing of my shoes of course.

Unfortunately, my split focus and the loud squishing of my shoes didn't let me hear the quick footsteps and splash of puddles behind me until it was too late and they were right behind me. It was the barest of warnings that when I felt an arm wrap tightly around my throat I wasn't able to pull the knife as I felt the sharp sting in the back of my neck.

My legs buckled, folding beneath me immediately and the arm around my throat was the only thing holding me up as my strength evaporated and my eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110


	3. Chapter 3

- **Ghostly Reflections** -

- **Part 03** -

IT LIVES… well, its been alive this entire time really, just buried under a dozen other things and in a deep state of edit weariness. And on that note, it was getting a bit tedious near the end of editing and didn't want to make any more changes so here it is, if you notice things that need correcting let me know. Thanks.

* * *

Just watching 003-B, in its homeless disguise as it was, bring in the new subject was an effort in self control. The mere _sight_ of the failed subject just made me frustrated, irate, and wanting to throw it in the incinerator or recycler to be done with it on more than one occasion. But I couldn't do that, not for the moment at least. Not until I had a replacement and as much as I loathed seeing the failure I still needed it.

Still though, it had been a close thing on more than one occasion. The frustration I felt at not being able to figure out exactly where I was failing was more than irritating. It was infuriating and The Failure was a distraction from solving the problem; a nuisance plain and simple and its continued existence was just a constant reminder of my continued failure.

003-B had been _perfect_ , the success of its wetware augmentation had been everything that I had hoped and was moving toward with the Ghost Project up to that point. That is, _of course_ , right up until it failed; when the subject had proven to be too _weak_ and _broke_ under the mental strain of what it had become.

In the end 003-B had been left as little more than a mindless vegetable. Fortunately though, it had been a vegetable that I'd been able to make some use of; thanks to a few of the the next generation components I had fortunately been testing in it. They at least had worked properly and let me make use of 003-B and get some real world data on the full prosthetics.

So despite the failure it wasn't a complete loss, however; and while it _was_ frustrating seeing the failed subject I could still feel a bit of pride at my sucess, minute as it was.

And as 003-B carefully set the limp form of my latest subject onto the pre-op exam and cleaning table, I had to wonder just how much of its consciousness had remained. Just how much of its _Ghost_ had survived.

After all, it was either something had remained of the 003-B's pathetic self, or, of course, my technology and methods were simply that good.

I prefered the latter theory of course, as frankly I couldn't see how 003-B could have retained enough intelligence to have identified this perfect new subject on its own. No, I was fairly certain I could pat myself on the back for that bit. The recognition programing perhaps, I made a mental note to check for sure though when I had the free time as I began looking over my new subject.

Oh, and what a subject it was; perfectly within the parameters I had set. Admittedly they _had_ been fairly simple: female, good apparent physical condition, homeless. Eh, I gave myself a mental pat on the back anyway.

Waving away 003-B as I caught a whiff of its disguise lest it taint my growing good mood, I grabbed up a pair of scissors from a tool tray and ran them up the inside of my new subject's sweatshirt sleeves. The sharp snip-snip-snip rasp of the scissors slicing cleanly through the fabric and allowing me to lay the fabric open so that I could inspect the inside crook of its elbow for any track marks; the signs of drug use via a syringe that so many of my subjects had had since I'd come to this filthy hole of a city. I found none.

"Excellent."

However, that didn't really mean anything as the basilic and the medians were _far_ from the only places they could shoot up.

Sniffing in distain at the thought of some of the more worse off subjects that had been brought in, I moved down the subjects surprisingly clean arm to inspect its wrist but didn't find any marks there. So moving down to the subject's feet, I cut through it's shoelaces and pulled off the rather well taken care of green sneakers; dropping them to the floor with the socks following immediately after.

Setting the scissors aside I spread the subject's toes; checking for any hidden injection marks. There were none, not a single _one_ \- not even under the nails -of the little black spots that riddled many of the homeless in the city. A proper waste of resources they were, but, at the very least they had fulfilled a purpose with some of the earlier prototyping phases.

Quickly checking the other usual places but finding not finding visible any marks, I swapped my now dirty gloves with a fresh pair; and dropping the used ones on the table, I extracted a blood sample collection kit from within my lab coat and tapped a vein to the surface of the subjects arm. Then fishing out a sterilization swab from a pocket, I cleaned the spot and slid in the long needle of the collector.

Absently removing the sample collector and stoppering the now filled vial; I deposited it back into my pocket and stepped back to look over my new subject. Hopefully, just hopefully, this one would be clean and I would be able to begin immediately. Hopefully. Clapping my hands twice to draw 003-B's attention like one would a dog, I pointed at my new subject and gave the simple order of, "Clean."

Leaving the failed subject to do one of the few things it was good for, I shucked my gloves and tossed them in the trash along with the used collector before heading for my trailer to begin the test on my blood sample. With any luck this subject would be able to handle the full tier of augmentation so I could finally move on to the next.

Hopefully, it would the one that let me take the next step; the step that would bring my vision into reality.

01000111 00101110 01010010 00101110

Setting my sandwich onto its plate, I sat up from my pillows as I felt something sour curl up and take root in the pit of my stomach. I could only watch, silent, as the local news transitioned from its coverage of the weather to what was apparently an update and re-airing of the BBPD making a missing persons announcement concerning a missing teenage girl, one Taylor Hebert. The name: it meant nothing to me, the face being shown on the flatscreen on the other hand...

I snapped my away from the broadcast, toward the body held in the stasis pod at the far end of the lab; the glass door frosted over and covering up what I'd done to it. _That_ , was a different story altogether.

Tearing my gaze away from the body, I put the channel on pause while snatching a tablet from the small bookshelf that ran along the length of my bed. Hurriedly swiping through all the subject files to find the one on 037-Q, I looked from the unconscious face to the school photo being shown by the police.

Slowly, my face contorted into a pinched scowl and I turned my attention back to the tablet; swiping through the control menus to access Subject 003-B's archived visual data from the last seventy two hours. Finding it, I began the tedious process of sifting through hours of visual data to find its capture of 037-Q.

It took a short while, but eventually finding what I wanted I played the capture back, watching the scene play out several times from its perspective before grudgingly conceding that I wouldn't have any valid reason to take out my frustrations on 003-B. 037-Q had, for all intents and purposes fit the criteria I'd provided for 003-B to follow: A homeless female, of good apparent health and fitness.

Well admittedly that _had_ been exactly what 003-B had brought back, or so I had believed at the time. I hadn't even considered- there hadn't even found anything that would have indicated… of course. I thought back to when 003-B had brought the subject in, how clean it'd been, lacking the usual uncleanliness that was on most of the subjects.

In retrospect it seemed obvious, I'd wanted a clean subject but I'd failed to realize that it'd been _too_ clean- clothes notwithstanding. A homeless woman that clean in _this_ cesspool of a city? After all I'd seen from previous subjects- both here and from upstate -that was almost an impossibility.

Groaning, I ground my thumb and forefinger into my eyes before pinching the bridge of my nose. I was simply dumbfounded. "What kind of idiot- in a trash bag of all things." With a thought process like that it would be a miracle if 037-Q wasn't a _complete_ waste.

Quickly dismissing the pessimistic thought however, I shifted my focus to dealing with this complication. And soon enough, I was swiping at the tablet again to send a recall order to 003-B before tossing it aside. With any luck it would be back in a few hours and this mess could be dealt with.

Sighing, I grabbed a bottle of tylenol off my shelf and tossed back several of the pills dry to try and preemptively ward off a headache- in the event things got more complicated -and hopped out of the loft bed and onto the mobile labs soft, rubber coated floor. Making my way across the lab, I briefly checked in on the progress of what would be some of 037-Q's individual components. And noting, with some satisfaction, that the coffin like 3-D printer, assembler and fabricator that was part of an even large closet sized machine set into the wall was nearing completion with its current job.

Others parts weren't quite as far along, and while they weren't necessary to continue with the first stage of testing I check they would be ready on schedule before stepping up to an almost messy tangle of hoses running into a shoebox sized container set onto a counter.

Deftly, I set my tablet aside and tapped the surface of the box to wake a touchscreen display that with a few quick manipulations gave me a live readout. Reading over it, the warm and satisfied feeling that bubbled up helped reassure me that 037-Q may not be a complete failure; as I saw from the readout that the neural tissue regeneration was progressing nicely with clean integration in all areas and showing no signs of rejection. Fortunately _that_ , particularly problematic hurdle hadn't been a problem since 003-B's generation.

With that confirmation though, I stepped back to the double doors in the middle of the lab, and throwing them open quickly descending the steps into the sealed off area of the abandoned warehouse that I had set up the rest of my lab in.

The extra space hadn't _really_ been needed originally and was something of an unnecessary expense. At least it had been at first.

Initially, the trailer had been designed to contain everything I would have needed. However, the room to stretch out in made up for it and had soon made things easier when it'd come time that I'd needed the larger scale incinerator and recycler to resupply the fabricator. Actually _getting_ the thing had been like splitting hairs.

In the end though, with the promise of an accelerated schedule, I'd won through and was able to start work on furthering the full prostheses without being set back by lack of materials. I wasn't sure _where_ or from _whom_ that nut and his band of mercenaries had gotten it from, but it did the job.

And then there was the fact that having the incinerator in the trailer _really_ hadn't worked out. Just thinking about it made me grimace and bring back the phantom stench of burning hair as I stalked past the cargo container shaped machine toward the other side of the lab space.

Reaching the farmost corner of the plastic wall that made up my lab space and donning a pair of gloves, I crouched down and sifted through a sizable pile of faraday bags filled with the things that previous subjects had had on them during in-processing. Spotting 037-Q's bag, I snatched it from the pile and walked back to the pre-exam table while making a mental note to see what could be tossed into the recycler; it wasn't as if the things were needed anymore. And unsealing the bag I dumped its contents onto the table, spreading everything around so it was separated out.

Quickly, it became apparent that there was neither a phone nor wallet that could have been used to confirm 037-Q's identity; and subsequently, my hope for its chances of success dropped just a bit . But, not to be completely discouraged, I turned out the pockets of the clothing 037-Q had been brought in with anyway just to be sure. There was nothing. Nothing _substantial_ that could be planted to divert attention.

Dropping the wet and fetid smelling sweatpants I pressed my palms hard against the table's edge in frustration and closed my eyes. "What kind of teenager- what kind of _moron_ goes out for a run without any form of ID or a phone, just... Gha!" It was a stupid question that I knew the question to already: the same type of moron that goes out running in the snow without weatherproof clothes.

Still though, the odds of 037-Q being someone _other_ than Taylor Hebert were practically infinitesimal.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I opened my eyes and began shoving the things back into the bag so 003-B could dump them in some alley. The police would think the girls disappearance was the fault of one of the gangs or the numerous homeless. I'd have to spill some blood on the sweatshirt and maybe mess it up but without a body the police would jump to the logical conclusion. Case closed.

In the process of fleshing out the plan in my head though I stopped, a knife the subject had apparently had on it momentarily surprising me as I picked it up.

Curiosity piqued, I flipped the blade open to show a wicked keen edge. _Probably_ , not a cheap import then. I held it in my palm, feeling that it had some heft; idly wondering on who manufactured it, I examined it for anything that might have indicated a brand or manufacturer's logo. Ultimately though, my curiosity remained unsatisfied as there was nothing but what I assumed to be a batch or serial number engraved at the base of the blade.

Shifting into a casual stance, I took a few experimental jabs with it and I couldn't help but raise a brow in surprise as a peculiar… quirk, of my power assessed the blade- or rather the tool -and graded it higher than most others it had when I'd been initially experimenting.

"Oh?" Looking at it with a raised brow and grabbed a green shoe that was still on the table, I pressed the edge of the blade against the side of the shoe sole and sliced off a thin ribbon of material.

"Well, I suppose 037-Q may not have been as stupid as it had seemed... But what a waste." Folding the blade back into the handle I dropped it, along with the rest of the things on the table, back into the bag and sealed it up before heading back to the trailer.

Stepping just inside, I briefly looked back toward my bed- and my sandwich in particular -and sighed.

"May as get started while I'm up," I conceded as I tugged off the gloves and turned slightly to toss them into the bin next to the steps. 037-Q will be stabilizing soon and… Running a few mental calculations, I idly shifted my weight from one foot to the other then glanced to the modified dentist's chair at the far end of the trailer before looking back to the other end at fabricator. "Well, with any luck I'll be able to get it through initial startup and interface testing before the day is out. Give it an hour to deal with failure and finish up the report... Yeah, that should keep me on schedule just fine."

Interlocked my fingers, I stretched them above my head high; cracking them loudly. "But first, some coffee."

* * *

Urg, thanks go to Seclorum for his fic (Ghost of a Chance) kicking me in the ass. And finally opening my file for this chap it seems its been pretty much done this entire time... derp.

And another ugh, its such a relief to post something. I literally have 5 things in varying stages of completion. 3 of which I just got tired of editing. Just... Ugh.

Also, something else, it is very disturbing to find out some of the things druggies go through with shooting up. (Cringe-squick rubs arms from phantom blood drawings.) Really couldn't research that bit as much as I do other things.

Needless to say Dollhouse isn't all there, he has a very… 'break a few eggs to make an omelet' mentality. But then again what can you expect from [redacted].


End file.
